Obey
by Connecticut Junkie the Second
Summary: Joffrey orders his dog, who must ultimately obey.  written for the commentfic prompt, AU where Joffrey demands the Hound hit Sansa, and there is no Imp to intervene this time.


Disclaimer: Not mine, GRRM

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><p>"Hit her, dog."<p>

Joffrey's rage was at its worst, and Sandor Clegane felt a moment of panic. It was odd, and he was almost unfamiliar with the feeling. The King was giving him an order he could not obey, but obeying was all he knew.

The boy's face grew redder. "I said, _hit her!"_

The little bird whimpered and turned those eyes on him, this time not flinching away. He could see her pleading silently, and didn't know which was worse, having to hit her himself, or if Blount or Meryn had been there to do it for him. Either way, she would end up bruised, and he would have to spend the night drinking to erase it from his mind.

Maybe he could get the King to listen to him. "It wouldn't teach her anything," he pointed out, and tried to tell the little bird with just his eyes that he had no intention of hurting her.

"It would teach her to keep her traitorous slut mouth closed!" Joffrey was incensed, and Sandor felt like pointing out that she'd already been beaten several times before yet she still mouthed off to the King, so perhaps maybe it wasn't as effective as the King thought.

"She is to be your wife, Your Grace. Wives are for kissing, not beating."

"I'll put a son in her soon enough but she'll get no tender kisses from me until she learns her place," the King said, his haughty tone somewhat ruined by the breaking in his voice. The way he was talking as though the girl wasn't even in the room with him made Sandor's skin itch.

"Still, a wife should have some kindness from her husband," Sandor said, hoping the boy would remember the misery of his own parents union and aim somewhat higher.

He could see the malicious glee as it spread across Joffrey's face, and feared that maybe he'd given the King an even worse idea. "Good job, dog! I'm a king, I don't bake my own bread or stable my own horses. Why should I tend to this bitch myself? Kiss her for me. You're quite hideous and that might terrify her enough to keep her silent." Joffrey grabbed Sansa's chin and jerked it so she could meet his gaze. "Would you like my dog to slobber on you?"

The tear that rolled down her cheek must have been answer enough for him, because he released her and clapped an arm on Sandor's shoulder. "Give her a nip or two while you're at it, dog."

He hated to admit it, but he had thought of kissing the little bird before. But she was too young, too pure, and he would push those thoughts to the back of his mind and ignore them until they faded away. However, none had ever been like this. Maybe she would have preferred a beating.

As Joffrey went back to his seat across the room to watch, Sandor wrapped his hand around the braid that fell along her back. She was still on her knees, and he slanted her head so she was looking up at him.

"Please, Your Grace, please, no, I'll keep my mouth shut, I promise," she begged, and her voice was raw with emotion but curiously Sandor noticed there were no more tears falling.

"Shut up or I'll have him beat you afterward anyhow," Joffrey threatened, and Sandor went to one knee in front of her before she could continue her groveling.

"Shh," he whispered, pitching his voice as low as he could and hoping the King could not hear it from his chair. He turned her so she was facing him and not Joffrey; although he wanted to hide her entirely he knew the boy would insist on seeing.

He let go of her braid and cupped the back of her head. His hideous face was reflected in her eyes and again he wondered if maybe she would have preferred the beating. His fingers slid through her elaborate hairstyle and he ran the tips in light circles against her scalp. She was not relaxed, but she did not resist him as he pulled her forward and pressed his ruined lips to hers.

She was frozen, not fighting him but not resisting him either. Joffrey would not be satisfied at this display of Northern fortitude. "Cry," he whispered, his lips still brushing hers. A keening note came from her throat and her shoulders shook, but he felt no wetness against his cheeks.

"What are you, a septon?" Joffrey's voice was mocking, but Sandor knew him well, and could tell the boy was enjoying the little bird's humiliation. "Kiss her like the whore she is."

Sandor placed his other hand on her face, as much to touch her soft skin as to shield some of her from Joffrey, and pulled back for a breath. "Fight," he begged her as quietly as he could, and held her head tighter as he kissed her again. The little bird did as she was told, as always, wiggling and whimpering and pounding her fists on his chest. Sandor couldn't help himself, despite the horribleness of the situation; when she opened her mouth to whimper he instinctively let his tongue reach out to touch hers. She felt so good it overrode his shame for a few moments, but he gathered his strength and eased up on the poor girl.

"You'll stop when I say she's had enough," Joffrey shouted from his seat, and Sandor knew he'd have no choice but to hurt her.

"Tears," he whispered, as he kissed her again, cupping his hand over her jaw for privacy, "he wants tears."

She nodded against him, and he could see her eyes, big and blue and dry. He cursed inwardly. The little bird had picked the wrong time to gain a backbone; first insulting the King to his face and now this. She was stupid, so stupid, and his anger flared and he shoved his tongue back into the sweetness of her mouth, and pulled on her hair, and gods why wouldn't she just cry already? He could hear Joffrey's encouragement in the background but he ignored it, because he swore that the little bird just put _her_ tongue in _his _mouth, and now she would get them both killed. He pulled back, caught her lower lip in his teeth, and bit.

This time the little bird did cry out, and he released her lip when he tasted copper. There were no tears, but there was blood, and he hoped that would appease Joffrey. Sandor looked over his shoulder and licked her blood off his lip. The King was smirking, and the slow clap he gave to indicate his pleasure reverberated off the stone walls.

"Good dog. She'll think twice next time about what comes out of her mouth, or I'll have you put something else in there." Sandor stood, his hand still in her hair, and pulled her up as gently as he could. Joffrey pointed at the little bird and Sandor resisted the urge to rip his finger off. "She's lucky I don't hang her for bestiality!" he said, and laughed at his own pale jape.

"Thank you, Your Grace," the little bird chirped, her head down.

Joffrey ignored her. "Take her back to her room, dog, and stay with her until I send someone for you. I want her to relive her shame every time she lays eyes on you."

"Aye," he answered, and if Joffrey caught the lack of an honorific, he didn't let on. He slid his hand from her hair to her neck and steered her to the hallway. Once they had enough distance, he gave her a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sorry. I know you would have preferred a beating."

He felt her shake her head under his hand. "No."

That brought him up short. He turned and bent down to face her. "Take the beating next time."

"You wouldn't be able to hit me," she said, and the sureness in her voice surprised him. She'd stated it as if it had been a well known fact, when he himself had only realized it minutes earlier.

"Joffrey is but a pup still. He'll not be satisfied with kisses for long."

"Better an ugly dog who's gentle than a beautiful lion cub with claws," she murmured.

He grabbed her face in both hands and brought his own ruined visage as close as he could. "This is not a song. Nothing stops at kisses; you are nothing more to him than a toy, and he will play with you until he breaks you and moves on to another."

She held his stare, and didn't flinch from his rage. Where had this new bird come from, he wondered, with ice in her veins and a backbone carved from the Wall itself.

"You're not safe with me," he snarled, and wiped the blood gently from her lip. Her only answer was a raised eyebrow, as defiant as a sword strike, and he cursed the winter that had come too late to help her.

-end-


End file.
